


Kill Your Darlings

by pearypie



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Apathy, Death, F/M, Future Fic, Gen, Introspection, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2017-09-25
Packaged: 2019-01-05 06:46:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12184968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearypie/pseuds/pearypie
Summary: 1895: Humans are awfully selfish with their grief, aren’t they? Self-indulgent, spoiled things the whole lot of them. It’s a pitifully pointless delay but he supposed it couldn’t be helped. Death had never been particularly patient to begin with.(Or, the day hasn't even started but Sebastian's already digging graves.)





	Kill Your Darlings

_You are the knife I turn inside myself; that is love._

_That, my dear, is love._

— Franz Kafka

 

* * *

 

The stillness of morning crept with melancholy calm, slow and careful like the first unsteady steps of a child. Outside the sky could not have been seen for what it was, so thick and dense were the grey clouds permeating the air—an aether of overcast finality. The trees—oaks and willows—bent low in mourning and the raucous cries of nearby servants could not be heard, muffled as they were by the cool morning mist that seemed to drape itself everywhere all at once, etching itself in the grand country manse. 

The cavernous insides of the manor-house reeked with a darkness that could not be explained. There was no dust on the chandeliers and no corrosion to be seen. It was immaculate, down to the last silver teaspoon, polished until gleaming by the butler’s skilled hands and arranged in a fine maplewood cabinet that stood near two candlesticks, now alight with cool flames.

 _Black are the days when death seems inevitable,_ he smiled, pausing to peruse his master’s collection of fine silver objects. Overhead, two dual swords hung in perfect symmetry, one crossed over the other.

These were the countess’s swords though she had not touched them in six days. Neither she nor his young master had made a single appearance beyond the east wing, so intent on drowning themselves in fragile melancholy. The butler had been forced to stifle his laughter on pain of human retribution (and the earl was such a spiteful, vindictive brat that Sebastian wouldn't put it past him to carve his body up himself) but it was becoming more and more difficult to contain the wicked smiles that came from an event such as this. The whole spectacle was an inexcusable display of exquisite hypocrisy that he couldn’t resist drinking in—inhaling and exhaling the murmured breaths of apology, the whispered pleas of regret, the bitter tears that seemed to flow so selfishly and consciously that he had to force his right hand still in order to prevent himself from cupping his mistress’s cheeks and lapping up her divine sorrow.

It was all terribly inharmonious, he thought with a hint of aggravation. His young master was so prone to fits of despair and violence that the butler no longer thought much of it but the _countess—_ now where was the fun in playing with a porcelain doll that was already broken? It was like winding up a music box only to hear no recognizable melody.

 _Such a waste of beauty._ The butler sighed, so sad and pathetic as she laid in bed, half-dressed with all her limbs exposed. Once, she had been marvelous—a surging thunderstorm of curiosity and sound, stirring his imagination to new heights because how good did an angel have to be to willingly lie with the devil? She astounded him, captivated his grotesque sensibilities and he counted down the days when she too would grow as corrupt and hideous as he and his master.

But she _failed_ and like Icarus she fell, not to hell or sin or any of those simple things—she became so utterly _human_ that now, she simply produced no effect. He could have fed her any pretty lie and she would have knelt before him, virginal in ways he knew she was not, and sang the Ave Maria.

Once, he would have lied and pretended for her sake but now, crimson eyes glowed with demonic indifference as he shouldered the weight of the inevitable. 

Outside, the dull yellow sun began to glow, illuminating the clouds with an acutely painful glare and then—

The butler knew it was time.

Up the winding stairs he walked in a procession of pitch-black. He was almost indelicate in his perfection, to have such a curious half-smile on his lips even as the very air turned to miasma. He thought he could hear the crunch of broken syringes beneath his feet but that was lie; the physicians had stopped coming three days ago and took their sharp metal tools with them. Took their basins and bowls and tools of science as the butler carefully scrubbed dried blood from the sweat soaked bedsheets. It'd been such a  _mess—_

Gradually, his footsteps slowed and he felt a sliver of reluctant regret in having to be the one to shatter such comfortable familiarity. The pretense of family life was all they had and now, it was to be broken with three sharp raps to the door. Truthfully, he’d never been particularly fond of inexplicable human grief—the whole affair was horribly self-indulgent—but even he could see the beauty in such a ceremony.

Even he was not without taste.

With one white-gloved hand, the butler knocked twice before he heard the murmurings of his master (“It’s time, Lizzy,” he gently coaxed) and the anguished cries of (“Ciel—I _can’t,_ please, we can’t do _this_ ”) before the doors opened. For the first time in nearly a week, the butler gazed upon the dispassionate face of his young charge (who'd grown up so beautifully _blue_ ) standing like a trampled hyacinth against this backdrop of grief.

“My lord.” He bowed lightly, submissive to the last. “It’s time.”

His master gave him a short, sharp nod and turned away, walking towards his ashen-faced bride who had collapsed in a heap by the rosewood bedside.

“Lizzy,” his master moved with a gentleness he hadn't thought possible, one hand coming to gently pry her from the cold bedsheets, “it’s time, Lizzy.” He whispered in her ear, voice soft but firm, leaving no room for argument. “She can’t stay here—“

“I won’t!” His wife cried, silent sobs wracking her thin frame, “how can we put her down there? So dark and cold and alone—she’s always hated the cold, you know that! Born in May with the spring roses—we can’t leave her in a place where she wouldn’t be able to see the sun.” One jeweled hand came to stroke the girl’s fair hair—the color of autumn gold, just like her mother’s. “I want," she cried lightly, "I want to see her by the windowsill, with the still blooming roses, Ciel,  _please—_ " Her pale, slim hand comes to trace the soft curve of her daughter’s cold cheek—painted rosy pink by the silver-haired mortician, lest the tinge of blue make itself visible.

Lady Elizabeth's bell-beat voice, the color of white swans, pierced the earl’s soul and in that moment, the butler sees him falter. His sapphire eyes come to look upon the face of his only child—now dead—and the steady rhythm of his breath slows for half a measure. 

Silently, almost imperceptibly, his shoulders trembled, though with _what_  Sebastian couldn’t say.

Instead, the butler cleared his throat, wondering if the countess would thank him. The hour was hastening and she had always been such a punctual, precise person—particularly when it came to social events. He opened his mouth to speak but the force of his master’s glare caused the words to wilt in his throat.

 _How odd,_ he thought as Lady Elizabeth pressed two kisses to the girl’s cold face and the earl followed suit, laying a single white rose by her side.

The butler frowned. 

“Ciel,” the countess breathed, and Sebastian could hear a change in tone—still anguished, yes, but lighter. Familiar, and she sounded like she once did. 

His master’s arm came to wrap around her waist. “She’ll have her roses, Lizzy.” He promised, eyes heavy and dark, filled with a kindness that hadn't been borne from pity or contempt. “I promise you,” he touched her warm, rosy cheek, “Léa will have beauty in her life—and,” there is hesitance in his voice, a strange, childlike insecurity that dissipates when the Lady Elizabeth lifts her eyes, tearstained but still lovely.

The earl must have thought so, for his words dwindled to a whisper even the butler had to struggle to hear. 

Outside, the December snow began to fall.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Feedback appreciated :)


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